It was by our old garage door beneath a spot long favored by birds to build nests of mud and string. The neighbor’s cat had not yet found it, though by dusk its deathbed would be merely flattened grass and a tuft of down.
Perhaps I had seen this one the day before, its head turned skyward, beak gaping in a torment of appetency.
It was a juvenile— not long expired, I knew, one black eye neither open nor closed, but stilled in that way the dead gaze without seeing.
Its plumage was nearly complete: the tell-tale russet breast, the mottled gray. So near to taking its perilous leap— one unforgiving day, or maybe two, had been the space between flight and fall.
This was a lovely work of feather and flesh, an inchoate beauty, its pinions and bristles nearly made.
I nudged it with my boot and glimpsed beneath the wing a naked leg and trident foot— all reptile scale and claw.
With less than a thought, I let the thing roll back upon itself, wing upon leg, to await the coming of the marauding cat.